


Claimed

by ClassiqueMystique



Series: Home On The Range [4]
Category: Frontier (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Death Threats, Established Relationship, Implied Mutilation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mild Language, Not between Declan or Michael though, Possessive Declan, Protective Declan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-04 22:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11564493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassiqueMystique/pseuds/ClassiqueMystique
Summary: Never fuck with anything that belongs to Declan Harp.8/14/17 Added a second chapter because why not? Lol :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onehoureternity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onehoureternity/gifts).



> This is how I would have re-written this scene in episode three. I’m messing around with the plot lines and scene sequencing, so don’t take this fic seriously lol.

Malcolm Brown turned around to face the man who had just entered into his tent. He could always tell when Declan Harp was in the area—it’s like he had a sixth sense for locating the man. But he wasn’t expecting to see the pale boy who stood behind the Cree, nor one of his own men crumpled by Harp’s feet.  “You'd better tell me why the fuck you're walking around my camp like you own the fuckin' place,” he said to Harp.

 “Oh, I found this piece of shit and I thought you might want it back,” replied Harp, kicking MacLaughlan in Brown’s direction. “Does he work for you?”

 “This fuckin' thief? I threw him and some other useless pricks like him out months ago.” Brown looked curiously upon the man, smirking when he saw that he was missing an ear. “What did he do?”

“Attacked the Lake Walker village, half a dozen dead. He's wearin' your colors.”

“So that's why you're here, to accuse me of murder? Is that how you would do business, eh? Kill your suppliers?” Brown snorted. “Don't be ridiculous, man.”

Declan gave Brown a look like he was a fucking moron. “Yeah, well, your fuck head brother kidnapped one of them: Kitchi The Okimaw's grandson? Held him hostage.”

Brown huffed. “If Cedric had anythin' to do with this I'll personally rip him a new ars—”

“Cedric's dead,” Declan grunted.  When silence consumed Brown, he continued. “A man named Chesterfield, Lord Benton's right hand man.”

Malcolm found his voice a few moments later. “I'm gonna find this man Chesterfield, and when I'm finished with him there won't be a piece of him bigger than my fist!”

The Cree waived him off. “You got a bigger problem, Brown: the Lake Walkers are seeking retribution.”

Brown slammed his fist on a nearby table. “I know nothing about no fuckin' attack! Why would I murder them? I need their fucking trade!” Suddenly his sights snapped to Maclaughlin who was still crouched on the ground. “You! Who told you to do it, hey?” he asked as he dealt a violent blow to the back of the man’s head. He followed that up with swift kicks to the man’s ribcage. “Who fuckin' hired ya?! Answer me or I swear to Christ I'll rip your head from your fuckin' body!”

 “He's not gonna talk,” said Declan.

But surprisingly Michael did. “You'll need to talk to the Lake Walkers,” he said quietly. That earned him an eyebrow-raising look from Declan, but it also caught Brown’s attention who ceased his abuse on MacLaughlin. He nodded to his men standing guard to clear the broken man away. Then he grabbed at a stray cloth, passing the material over his bloodied knuckles.

“Go on,” he said to Michael, looking at him with a fixed gaze as if he’d just seriously considered the lad’s presence for the first time.  

Michael cleared his throat, casting a quick glance at his lover before continuing. “You could talk to them—the Lake Walkers that is. You can tell them you didn't do this, and that MacLaughlin and the others were no longer your men. If you don’t try to reason with them, who knows what could happen,” he finished quietly.

Brown regarded the pale Irish boy for a long time. A bit longer than Declan would have preferred. “My men and I can handle ourselves, if anything were to happen.”

Michael shook his head. “I’m sure you can, but that’s not the point. Instead of fighting amongst ourselves, we need to go after the real bad guy: Lord Benton. We need to take him and his operation down, but we can’t do that if we’re squabbling with each other,” he said, his Irish twang thick with every word.

“He''s right. We need to unify, but we can’t do that without the Lake Walkers,” said Declan in agreement. But he might as well have been talking to a wall, his words falling on deaf ears as they had. Instead of acknowledging him, Brown took a few steps towards Michael.

“You’re Michael Smyth, aren’t you? I've heard quite a bit about you. Irish born lad recently testing out his boots in this great frozen land. Word in the trade is that you double-crossed Benton. Tasked with mission to run information back to him, you instead defected and joined forces with our favorite Cree.”

“And? What of it?” Michael asked, his best tough-guy expression plastered on his face.

Brown laughed.  He had to brush past Declan in order to come face to face with the Irish lad. “Oooh beautiful, and feisty too? Such a delicious combination,” he said, lifting his hand to rub his thumb across Michael’s bottom lip and against the pale flesh of his cheek.  Brown had this lecherous look about him now. Like he was imagining Michael’s lips around his cock, or his pale thighs wrapped around his while he fucked him raw.  It was so different to the way Declan looks at him. Declan was all about hunger, intensity, and compassion. Brown looked like wanted to destroy Michael from the inside out, with or without his consent.  It made him shiver.

“You know that Benton is looking for you, don’t you sweetheart? And the things he's planning to do to you..." he drifted off, eyes briefly fluttering closed before snapping back open. "I can offer you protection. Not that I don’t trust my good man Declan here to put up a good fight or anything. But I have a lot more men at my disposal…and a lot more guns too. I'd do anything to keep a sweet thing like you safe."

The Irishman grimaced at the moniker, and just as he flinched away from the unwelcomed touch, Declan spoke: “Michael, wait with Dimanche and Sokanon outside.”

Michael gave him a questioning look, but Declan reassured him with a small smile. “Go on,” he whispered, gesturing to the tent flap. With a curt nod, Michael departed in silence. Declan caught Brown’s eyes drifting lower as he watched the Irishman exit, no doubt staring at his leather-encased backside.

As soon as the rustling tent flap resettled, Declan pulled a knife on Brown, pushing him backwards until the back of Brown’s thighs collided with the table. The tip of the blade pressed against the startled man’s Adams apple, so much so that the man knew that if he dared to swallow, the blade would pierce his flesh easily.

Whatever softness that was on Harp’s face when he spoke to Michael was long gone, replaced with a fury that almost made Malcolm Brown’s knees buckle.

“You don’t fucking speak to him. You don’t fucking look at him. And you sure as fuck don’t ever touch him again. In fact, if you so much as breathe in his fucking direction again, I will come after you.”

Malcolm release a shaky laugh. So the boy was taken? Well damn, so much for that. But he’d already poked the bear and there was a good chance that he might die from this encounter. So what were a few more careless words spoken—a bit of oil on the raging fire? “Oh so he’s your plaything then? You could have said something. Although I’m a bit surprised. I didn’t think you’d want to risk it—having affections for someone after what happened to your family.”

Declan growled at that and pressed the dagger in harder, coating the tip crimson. But instead of addressing what Brown said, Declan replied: “If I ever see you sniffing around my boy again……I’ll make a soup.”

Silence.

Malcolm’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “I think you’re losing your touch, Harp. You’ll cook me dinner? How the fuck is that intimidating?”

Declan grinned maliciously and leaned in close. “Oh, it won’t be a regular ole soup, Malcolm. Oh no no no. This will be a special one that I’ll serve to your men. But you won’t get to have any, because unfortunately for you, your body parts will be some of the key ingredients. A few fingers, some toes, maybe a kidney or two for flavoring,” he growled, watching in satisfaction as Brown paled. “But do you know what the best part will be? I won’t touch a single hair on your head. Nope, that handsome face of yours will remain fully intact. I mean, your head will be separated from your neck when I’m through, and I may put it on a pike down at the port, with your severed dick in your mouth, but I won’t rearrange your face at all because it will become a symbol to all who see it.”

Malcolm blinked rapidly, and tried to swallow the pooling saliva in his mouth. He was sure that sweat had now culminated on his forehead, and that rotting corpses had more color in their cheeks than he at the moment, but he still had to ask. “A symbol of what?”

Declan was now a hair’s breath away from his face, lips curled back and teeth bared like a wild animal. “That the Brown family is full of dickheads.”

And that’s when Malcolm felt it: a second dagger pressing against his genitals.

“Are we clear?”

“Crystal," Brown squeaked.

“Good,” Harp grunted, just as the firing of muskets sounded from outside. Shouting followed soon after, screams that there were Lake Walkers firing from the trees.

“Now that we got that settled,” Declan spat, “I think it’s time you go play nice with the angry Walkers outside. Prove to them that you’re not an honorless piece of shit. ”

 He didn’t wait for Malcolm to respond or collect himself. Instead he swiftly headed for the exit and towards the gunfire, only one thought now at the forefront of his mind.

 

_Protect Michael._

**TBC...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just felt like writing a second chapter for this, lolz. Enjoy!

Declan ordered Dimanche and Sokanon to run off ahead. He watched as they safely made it through the clearing and into the trees, away from the blazing gunfire. But he and Michael were a different story. They had yet to get to a safer location. In fact, as soon as Declan emerged from Malcolm’s tent, he had to duck and crawl over to Michael, making it over just in time to knock him down to the ground before a bullet lodged itself between the Irishman’s eyes.

 

“So,” Michael began, eyes darting wildly between the Lake Walkers and Brown’s men, chest heaving with every breath. “This is fun.” He turned to his lover, flashing a charming and somewhat hysterical smile. “You come here often?”

 

Declan returned the grin and shrugged. “You know how it is.”

 

Michael rolled his eyes. Only Declan Harp would be indifferent to a battle going on around him. He on the other hand, was shaking like a Virgin bride on her wedding night.

 

“I need to get you out of here,” Declan grunted. He too was assessing the situation, sans the shaking. “Dimanche and Sokanon were closer to the trees. I don’t think we can make it that far intact.”

 

“But the Lake Walkers are our friends. They wouldn’t shoot at us.”

 

Declan shook his head. “They’re angry Michael. Right now they’re shooting at _anything_ that moves.”

 

Michael nodded in understanding. “And Malcolm’s men are incompetent. So they’re shooting back at everything too.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

A man suddenly ran by Declan, trying to escape the gunfire as he reloaded his musket. Unfortunately he was a touch too slow, and his head seemingly exploded when a bullet shot through his right eye.  The blood sprayed all over the  left side of Declan’s face, making him look, in that moment, every bit as savage as Lord Benton made him out to be.

 

Michael shivered in excitement.

 

Declan noticed and flashed a big grin, clasping Michael on the neck with his massive hand. He rubbed the skin there affectionately, loving the way it heated up and turned bright red under his touch.

 

“That’s not helping Declan,” Michael growled.

 

Declan barked out a laugh. “I know.”

 

Michael joined in, punching his lover in the shoulder. But both men ducked quickly afterwards when a round of three shots whizzed merely inches above their heads. “It’s getting a bit dodgy around here love,” Michael shouted.

 

“This wouldn’t have happened if Brown’s fuckheads didn’t kill that kid. I wouldn’t blame the Walkers if they decided to kill everyone here.”

 

“Yeah, well I didn’t plan on dying here today,” Michael quipped.

 

The look Declan gave him pierced him sharper than any of the bullets flying by them could have. “I will kill any piece of shit that puts their hands on you. _Anyone_.”

 

And in that moment, Michael truly understood the depth of Declan’s words. The fact that Declan was willing to kill in general surprises no one, least of all Michael. These were rough lands that bred even rougher sons, to which Declan was a prime example. Hell, when he first met the man, Declan was butchering some poor defenseless animal, and had savagely used his bloodied hands to stain the skin of Michael’s face red. Declan was the epitome of an enigma—a man born of civilization yet forever detached from it. He followed his own law and made others around him do the same. And if others questioned his tactics then they would soon  find themselves forever without a voice or a heartbeat. But like any base creature, Declan’s code of life had simple principles and pleasures. He was a man of little complications: he ate, loved, fucked, and was content. What was his, was _only_ his and he would fight and kill to protect his possessions.

 

Michael looked at his lover—at his set jaw and furrowed lines in his forehead. Declan said he would kill **anyone** here who dared touch Michael. Anyone meant both Malcolm Brown’s  men…and the Lake Walkers. That was why Michael was taken aback—why his throat was suddenly dry and his mind was scrambling for thoughts. Somehow during their intimacies, Declan’s affection for Michael had surpassed his loyalty to other Native tribes. Make no mistake: the massive Cree took pride in his heritage and that of the other tribes around him, even if he only shared half their blood. But Michael never believed that Declan would hold any others in regards higher than his duties to the Natives. So to be told so bluntly and resolutely where he stood on the list of Declan priorities….well Michael was breath taken.

 

He leaned in and quickly placed his forehead against the Cree’s, moving away only when he heard Brown emerge from his tent and begin shouting for the gunfire to cease. Michael noticed that Brown wasn’t walking with as much confidence as he was minutes before. “Is that what you said to him when you asked me to leave the tent? Did you threaten him for touching me? What did you say to him exactly?”

 

Declan glared at the back of Brown’s head. “That I’d cut off his dick and stick it in his severed head. Put it on a pike for display down at the port……and I might have added that I would feed his other body parts to his men.”

 

“Fuck,” Michael whimpered. He looked at Brown who must have sensed their discussion of him as he briefly turned to face them. But as soon as he saw Declan looking back at him, he paled and scampered off, encouraging  his men even more to lower their weapons. Michael remembered the way Brown’s hand felt on his face—how disgusted he felt with the fur traders lustful gaze upon him. Viewing the same man now in a state of distress was very satisfying. “Good,” he said with conviction. He turned to Declan. “Now get me out of here.”

 

The Cree looked at him with a raised brow. “Need to rush off somewhere?” There was an air of possession in that question, along with a flair of amusement.

 

“Yes,” Michael responded determinedly. “There’s a cock that I need to sit on right about now. And I would prefer that we don’t have an audience for that.”

 

Declan laughed and scooped the Irishman into his arms without hesitation. Some might say that the gunfire ceased when Malcolm Brown begged his men to lower their guns. Others might say that the Lake Walkers ran out of ammunition and retreated. But most would agree that the shootout halted when the Walkers and Brown’s men watched stupefied when Harp carried Michael into the woods bridal style, ecstatic that he’d finally get to see Michael turn red everywhere.

 

**Fin**

**Author's Note:**

> Next ficlet in the series is for RedLlamas, who wanted to see me use this phrase in a Miclan fic: "I want you to mount me."
> 
> Stay Tuned Peeps! 
> 
> XOXO
> 
> -CM


End file.
